Recharging the Spark
by xfilesfanatic
Summary: A filler scene set during the beginning of Mockingjay: Prim comes to visit Katniss in the hospital.
1. My sister, the doctor

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games trilogy is not mine. Credit goes to Suzanne Collins. I also give credit to Lorde, and if you pay attention to the story, you'll see why.

**A/N:** Set during the Mockingjay movie…

Recharging the Spark

Darkness. That's all I see as I crouch in the corner of an empty chute hidden in the depths of District 13. All the colors disappear here and it is quiet, allowing my conscious mind to sigh in relief upon realizing there are no people here. I can't see them, and they can't see me; I am out of reach and do not believe they'll suspect me hiding in this little godforsaken corner. Oh, how I've come to hate the presence of others, at least for now. In Thirteen's hospital, all I see are people. Well, sterile walls and people. Doctors come into my room, feed relaxants into my veins or give me pills to calm my nerves. Other days people talk to me to sort the ramblings of my mind, hoping to help me distinguish real from not real, and to cling to the facts. But really all they do is burn holes in my head:

_Your name is Katniss Everdeen. Your home is District Twelve. You were in the Hunger Games. You escaped._

When they are not there, there is nothing to do but look at the ceiling, or the walls. I can't even watch stars from a window because I am so far underground. I could try to sleep, but that's hard to do when I know my dreams will not be sweet. And, if I'm honest, I look at the door more than anything else, hoping that at any minute Prim or mom will walk through the door and pay me a visit. Sometimes my disorientation allows the walls to melt away, revealing Finnick in the room just beyond mine, clinging to a picture of Annie and crying himself to sleep. The image is not real, I know, but it is how my psyche copes; it's how I know I'm not alone in this pain. He lost his Annie, and I lost my Peeta.

_Oh God, Peeta_.

The thought of him hits home and sends shivers down my shoulder blades. My throat tightens as my lips whisper his name. Then a tear rolls down my cheek and suddenly I'm rocking myself harder. The darkness that envelopes me is no longer a haven but a physical reminder of the world I live in, and it threatens to swallow me whole. It is moments like these I remember that in darkness is how this all started, and worry that's how it all will end. Fear begins to settle into every fiber of my being, so I sigh and repeat the list of things I know to be true:

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. My home is District Twelve. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. Peeta...Peeta was left behind._

I don't know whether my voice cracked too loud at the thought of Peeta, or if the screams in my head can be heard from miles away, but either way I curse myself for being too loud when a nearby door suddenly opens and I see a yellow flicker penetrate the dark.

"Ms. Everdeen," a woman calls out. "You shouldn't be in here."

I sigh. Maybe if I be quiet, she'll go away, but my voice betrays me before I have a chance to think it through. "I had a nightmare. Just give me five minutes."

"You need to sleep. We can help you sleep."

Maybe I'm being overemotional, but salty rivers break free from my eyes and trail down my face as I realize she isn't going to listen, and doesn't. "No, please. It's just five more minutes." I struggle as a second doctor drags me from my hiding place and tries to lift me up. "Don't touch me! Don't! Get off of me!" Their combined strengths overpower my own as I try to break free.

"Please don't," I weakly plead, but my desperation falls deaf on their ears.

"You must calm down, Ms. Everdeen. We're only trying to help you."

"THEN LET GO!" I retort as I squirm out of doctors' grips, frantically seeking escape. Suddenly, their faces blur and fog clouds my mind as it registers a stick of cold metal penetrating the soft skin on my right arm. The needle, I know, is bound to leave another scar I can add to the list of those that already mark my body and mind.

* * *

My eyes flutter open as cool fingers gingerly stroke my forehead. The first thing I see are the lights on the ceiling, still dim, and I reason I must not have been out for very long.

"Katniss," a voice whispers my name. "Katniss, I'm here. It's alright." The fingers caressing my forehead now migrate to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I look above me and see a pair of blue eyes staring back, and a crop of ashy, blond hair. _Peeta_.

My hand reaches out to touch his face, and for a moment time seems to slow. He smiles at me, with love in his eyes he made clear was there since our first Games, and even before then. His other hand is not touching me, so I move my own from his cheek so that we have our fingers laced together. There is so much I want to say to him, and I want to believe that he is really here, safe with me. I don't know. Maybe I willed him here and he's safe with me for the moment, until some unseen force mystically drags him back to the Capitol.

I mentally kick myself again as I realize my thoughts spoke too soon. Before my eyes, time appears to be speeding up as Peeta's face morphs into that of a young girl, while the blond locks elongate past shoulder length and his clothes pale. "Don't Go!" I call out too late as try to tighten my grip on his hand, refusing to let him go. "Stay with me," I beg, but he's gone.

"Katniss!" a soft voice calls. "Katniss, please. Take a deep breath." The familiar voice jolts my senses into full consciousness and suddenly I realize that Prim is at my bedside, trying to still my flailing hand.

"Prim?" I ask lamely.

"Yeah. It's okay. Try to relax." Her fingers push back some more of my hair, and I can't help but feel slightly dismayed as it dawns on me that's probably what I felt earlier. I can tell by the dim hospital lights that it is still late and even without proper lighting, I can see that Prim looks tired. Her eyelids look desperate to slam shut and I know her worry for me is denying her the rest she needs. If she is to function at the hospital, as her daily schedule demands, she needs all the sleep she can get.

"You're supposed to be asleep, little duck."

"So are you," she replies.

"What are you doing here Prim? It's too early for you to even get your daily schedule."

Her eyes brim with tears and I sigh. _I'm just saying and thinking all the wrong things tonight, aren't I? _

"I was worried about you. Sometimes I sneak by the hospital to check on you. And when I didn't see you tonight, I got worried and notified one of the doctors."

"Ah, so that's explains why the doctors went looking for me in the dead of night in the first place," I reply sardonically, and then regret it when I look into her eyes again. "No, no. Ignore that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I know you're having a hard time recovering. I know I'm only an apprentice at the hospital, but I am trying to help you however I can."

Although smiling is one of my greatest challenges right now, I manage one for Prim. I know that she, and even mom, are doing all they can and want to see me get better. I prop my hands against the bed to sit myself up, but slow down when the earth seems to spin for a brief second. Then once it stills, I lean over and give my sister a thank you as I wrap my arms around her.

"Let me tell you something, little duck. So far you've been helping me heal more than the 'actual' doctors in this hospital." Prim doesn't reply, and instead whispers in my ear and tells me to get some rest. Then she pulls something out of the pocket of her nightgown. It is shiny, small, and round, and I quickly recognize it as the pearl Peeta gave to me. "How did you…?"

"I found this on the ground, after the doctors brought you back to the hospital." I take the treasured token of the giver and roll it between my fingers as my sister continues: "Katniss, I know you miss him. I know you're worried about him. But if he were here, he would want you to get well. And if you want him back, you need to get well so that you have the strength to fight." I consider her words and nod. She is right. The tears I have shed ever since the Quarter Quell have managed to extinguish the fire that found a home in me. And if I am to ever get it back, for this revolution, for Prim, and for Peeta, I need to recharge the spark in my heart that gives me the courage to fight.

It amazes me how this girl, my sister, has grown so much these past few years. Before her first reaping, I was the one who always used to comfort her and alleviate her fears. I sung her to sleep when she had nightmares of the reapings, and watched over her after Dad died. Now here she is, taking after mom, and taking care of me.

Before I can protest, she insists on staying with me until I fall asleep. My eyelids become heavy and I succumb to slumber as she sings:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when you awake, the sun will rise_

_Here its safe, here its warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from harm_

_Here the dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you_

The last thing I think to myself before I enter a deep sleep is how grateful I am to have Primrose, not the daisies, to guard me from harm.


	2. Bloody roses and broken spirits

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

**A/N:** Okay, most of this story is Katniss dreaming. But let's remember, folks, she's not entirely in her right mind by the time we reach the Mockingjay portion of the HG series. Thank you to Precambrian Studios for beta-reading!

* * *

As consciousness begins to slowly seep through me, I wake and open my eyes to find myself surrounded by tall white walls. The scene is almost peaceful at first; it's quiet and there is not a person in sight. But then the odors of blood and roses soon invade my nostrils, startling my senses into full alert. When I suddenly realize that I am on the ground, I prop myself upright against a wall, and my blurry vision begins to clear. The room is small and enclosed, but on one side, sunlight streams through two large windows, both of which bear flags of our nation, much like the windows at my house in the Victor's Village.

I find myself startled again as it dawns on me that I must be in the Capitol; most likely Snow's mansion. The place reeks of him, and I feel all too certain of this when I notice that the rays are illuminating vase of red roses, which is resting in the center of a smooth mahogany table. Slowly I approach the sickly sweet-smelling flowers, but I hesitate when I get too close, afraid to pick one up. The silence is scary and I know what they mean: I'm being watched. Maybe there are cameras in this room, and Snow is laughing somewhere while he feasts on a meal or sips a cup of lemon tea. So instead I simply reach out and run my forefinger over one of the smooth petals.

It is such a simple action and yet I regret it, as it only takes me a second to realize that something is very wrong. I run my thumb below the petal I'm touching and soon realize, to my horror, that I feel a sticky moisture on both fingers. As I withdraw my fingers and turn them over, my breath catches in my throat and my stomach lurches. _Blood_. These aren't red roses. They are bloody white roses.

Before I can process my actions, I run to the windows and thrust them open. The bile that burns my throat makes its escape, along with a few tears. I'd like to escape, too. Just jump out and let everything be over, because I'd rather be anywhere but here.

Suddenly, a great _crack_ catches my attention, forcing me to turn around. The vase has broken and the flowers, scattered about, are now dripping blood. At first I see a few drops, and then a pool begins to form as the roses slowly return to a pristine white hue. I'm too mortified to move, until I force myself when I realize that the blood is trailing towards _me_.

….

I don't know where it came from, but I am grateful when I notice a door knob opposite of the windows. Frantically, I grab the handle and pass through the door, slamming it behind me, though I doubt it'll help me with my escape. The door connects to a long hallway, and despite my efforts to run as fast as I can, I can barely move at all. For every step I take, the hall seems to stretch farther, barring me from another door in sight with increasing distance.

Forever seems to pass before the hallway ceases its teasing, allowing me to pass through into another room. It is dark and my hands blindly search for a light switch, but before I can succeed I trip on something and ram my face into the ground. Startled, I scramble again for a switch, but a voice calls my name and stops me. I'd know that voice anywhere.

"Peeta?" I pray it's him, and now I almost hope there isn't a light, because I'm afraid to look at him.

"Katniss, what are you doing here?" he asks me in a weak voice. I wince as a bright flash of light suddenly floods the room, giving me a clear view of him. The first thing I notice are dark circles under his eyes and a huge gash on his forehead, much like the one I had during our first Games. God only knows what Snow has been doing to him.

"Peeta," my voice is thick with tears. "I've gotta get you out of here." I kneel down close and run my fingers over his forehead as I inspect his scar. "What have they done to you?"

"It doesn't matter Katniss. You need to leave, you're not safe here!" he insists before he releases a sharp gasp of pain. As I stare at him helplessly, my mind races. _What have they done to you?! Come with me! Why won't you get up?_

I insist that he isn't either and that we need to get out of here, but he stops me and my heart breaks when he says he's paralyzed. The force of the lightning tree left him immobile, and it sickens me to realize that Snow has used this to his advantage, to make Peeta his prisoner without actually restraining him. He's not safe here, and neither am I. But if he can't leave, then neither will I. I won't leave him behind like _they_ did.

"Then I'm staying with you," I tell him.

"Katniss, don't," he pleads, but I ignore him. I lay down next to him and rest my head on his chest, my way of showing him that I'm _not_ leaving.

"You would always stay with me, wouldn't you, Peeta?"

"Always," he repeats, and I nod. I would always stay with him, too.

* * *

A soft cry interrupts my sleep and forces me awake. I realize now that I'm back in my hospital bed in Thirteen, and Prim's efforts to make me get a decent amount of rest have just been ruined. Even if there were no noises to interrupt me in slumber, the severity of my nightmares is enough to keep me awake, and insomnia stopped being a stranger over a year ago.

Slowly, I rise out of my bed, knowing I won't be able to go back to sleep, and walk towards the cries coming from Finnick's room. Once I enter his room, I call his name to get his attention.

He looks at me with despair in his eyes while his fingers relentlessly choke a strand of rope into a tight not. He knows I'm still angry at he and Plutarch for leaving Peeta and Johanna behind, and it's all I've been able to think about ever since I was rescued from the arena.

"I wanted to go back for Peeta and Johanna," he starts with a shaky inhale. "But I-I couldn't move." I listen to him and say nothing. I feel his pain but I still can't shake my anger. "They have Annie, too. Sh-she's in the Capitol." He sniffles again and then continues in a voice void of emotions: "I wish she was dead. I wish they were all dead and we were too."

His words pierce my inner being and I can't stop a stray tear that trails down my face. Is this what we've been reduced to? Feeling so broken that we rued being alive? How could Finnick say what he just said? I don't wish _Prim_ was dead. _I_ don't want to be dead. But this is how Snow wants us to feel, isn't it? That not even we, the victors, supposedly the strongest of individuals, can feel like we can overcome the Capitol. Finnick is giving in, so I can't help it when I snap at him.

"You knew about the plan."

"Katniss-"

"And yet you went along with Beetee's plan to kill the Careers. It separated all of us! Why not keep us all in one place if you knew Plutarch was coming?"

"There were factors to consider!" he's crying now.

"What factors?!"

"We were being watched, and we needed Snow to think we were playing the Game up until the last minute. Johanna cut out your tracker so Snow couldn't find you and drag you back to the Capitol. And it was never lost on anybody that Peeta has loved you all along. Getting you out was our top priority, and we knew Peeta would agree if he knew about the plan."

Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach as I listen to Finnick's final words, and my hand reflexively flies to my mouth to suppress a sob I can barely contain. Peeta has loved me this whole time and the other victors have taken advantage of that, much like I did the year before. I can't look at Finnick anymore so I turn away and go back to my room, releasing my emotions in quiet, violent sobs. I cry for Peeta and think about how I hurt him after the first Games, when I made it clear I felt indifferent toward him. I think about how his own mother had more confidence in me winning the Games than she did in him. And now I see everyone else has taken advantage of his selflessness. We all hurt him, and now he's the one at the mercy of the Capitol. Had anyone else been sent away with the unkind words Peeta received from his mother, I probably would have been a first target in the 74th Games, just to discourage her confidence in me as a potential winner. All of these things, though, never stopped Peeta from putting my safety before his. And then when I wanted nothing more than for him to be safe, I couldn't protect him. Haymitch was right, I could live a million lifetimes and never deserve him.

_Haymitch_. My blood boils at the thought of his name. He knew about the plan too, and he lied to me. As I continue to cry for Peeta, I can't help but hope that Haymitch is suffering while he's drying out.

* * *

Morning takes forever to come, but by the time it does, my tears have subsided. My body aches from crying, and it's hard to ignore until Prim walks into my room, with a brush in hand.

"Did you get some sleep, Katniss?" I smile at her and pull her in for a hug.

"Yes I did. Thank you, Prim." It's terrible of me to lie.

"I'm glad." She pulls away from the hug and positions herself behind me so that she can brush my hair. Prim has a doctor's touch, and gentle hands. I can tell by the way she runs the comb and her fingers through my hair. I smile to myself and remember better days: when Prim was little, I used to brush her hair, and once it got long enough, she wanted to wear her hair like mine.

_Many years ago, I would say about nine, I tied my hair into a braid before preparing for an archery lesson with Dad. Then out of nowhere came a frustrated five-year old Prim, struggling with two even pieces of blond hair twisted around each other that kept coming undone. _

_"I wish I looked like you. I want a braid, too!" She pouted._

_I couldn't help but laugh. "Well, first of all, little duck, you need to divide your hair into THREE sections." I emphasized "three" with my fingers._

_She looked at me curiously. "Three? That's too hard!" she shrieked._

_"No, no it's not. Here, I'll show you." I pulled her by my side and in front of the mirror, while dividing her hair evenly into three parts. "Okay, first off, you need to take a section of hair and bring it to the middle, then take the outer section on the opposite side, and bring that to the middle. And then repeat." I completed the pattern for her, while I explained it. And as a result, she had her hair in her first beautiful blond braid._

_"Yay!" She cried in relief from her frustration. "Thank you Katniss!" Then she gave me a hug before skipping away to show mom her new hairdo._

I smile as I remember. It's hard to think about anything outside of the current events in my life, so it's nice when I can take refuge in a precious memory, even if only for a little while. Suddenly my attention is pulled away to the present when a soldier walks into the room. He greets me and introduces himself as Colonel Boggs, District Thirteen's head of security.

"I know you've been discharged, but President Coin's requested to speak with you first."

My heart starts to pound and I begin to feel jumpy. "Is there any news?" He tells me nothing and offers to escort me to Coin. Hastily, I stand up and follow his lead, ready to give this Coin and anyone else with her a piece of my mind.


	3. Meeting Coin

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games trilogy is not mine. :(

A/N: Here is part 3.

….

As Colonel Boggs guides me into a cold, dimly lit conference room, the first thing I notice is Beetee in a wheelchair. I'm not surprised he was immobilized, since he was so close to the lightning tree. The sight of him, though, reminds me that Peeta was guarding him, which meant he was near it, too. He could be in the Capitol right now sitting in a wheelchair, as well, or he could be in a dark room left for dead, unable to help himself or escape, just like in my dream. What if they're taunting him over there? The Capitol has special medicines and surgical operations that we aren't capable of providing in the districts. If they could reconstruct my left ear and cure my deafness after the 74th Games, I have no doubt they could fix Peeta. But what if he's not alright? What if they can help him and deliberately choose not to, just for the sake of demonstrating their power over him? Or if he wasn't damaged in the arena, what schemes do they have up their sleeves to hurt him?

The voice of Plutarch Heavensbee grabs my attention when he introduces me to President Coin as their "Girl on Fire," the nickname Cinna gave me when I first met him. I wish he hadn't called me that, because I'm suddenly reminded of just how much I miss Cinna, and the memory of peacekeepers beating him in front of me is another heartache that I can add to my list of pains. If I didn't feel so numb, I think I would've ripped Plutarch's head off. "Madam President, may I present you with the Mockingjay." President Coin approaches me to shake my hand.

"It's an honor to meet you. You're a courageous young woman." No, I'm not. All I can think about is how afraid I am. "I know how disorienting this must be, and I can't imagine what it must be like to live through the atrocities of those Games." No, she can't, and she never will. That's something only Peeta can do.

Unlike my mind, my mouth still refuses to form words; I am nowhere near as honored to meet her as she is to meet me, and disorienting is right. Ever since I arrived here, I've been in the hospital, and I haven't seen the sun or inhaled fresh air. And worst of all, the person I so wanted to protect isn't here. If he was, maybe I would've recovered more easily, because when he's with me, the nightmares don't come. Instead, I got separated from the one person, the one remedy, I need most. I could berate everyone in the room for this, but instead I focus on Coin and take in her features while she assures me I'm a welcome guest in her district. The first thing I fixate on is her hair. It elongates past her shoulders and varies in hue, streaked with dark and light shades of gray. That alone is enough to convince me that she and the rest of Thirteen have known loss. She's not very young, but doesn't appear to be old enough yet for her hair to signify the coming of grace to the extent that it does. And the second thing I notice are her eyes. They are pale and soulful, adding a certain fragility to her appearance. She looks as though she could be on the brink of tears at any minute; it's obvious there is pain there, but from what, I cannot say.

She turns away from me to take a seat, and I'm hesitant to do the same until Beetee motions for me to sit.

Plutarch speaks again. "This is history, right here at this table."

I'm not really in the mood to hear about anything except an update on Peeta, but instead, Coin apologizes for not giving me more time to recover, as if I ever could, and continues, "are you aware of what's happened?" I shake my head 'no'.

"When you fired your arrow at the force field, you electrified the nation. There have been riots and uprisings, and strikes, in seven districts. We believe that if we keep this energy going, we can unify the districts against the Capitol. But if we don't, if we let it dissipate, we could be waiting another seventy-five years for this opportunity. Everyone in Thirteen is ready for this."

The districts are rebelling. _Sure_. Everyone in Thirteen (except me) is ready to fight. _Fine_. This opportunity may not come again if we don't act now. _Whatever_. Now it's my turn to talk: "What about Peeta, is he alive?"

Plutarch's only answer is uncertainty; he doesn't know because he can't reach his contacts within the Capitol. Mentally, I suppress a groan. I'm annoyed he doesn't know, and even more so that he's so quick to change the subject. I can barely register his words as he continues to speak to me, mentioning something about how I'm alive and willing to fight, and then saying something about shooting anti-Capitol advertisements he refers to as "propos." I can't picture myself leading a revolution right now, though. My eyes mist as I picture myself on a crane, being pulled from the arena, being pulled to safety as fire incinerates the ground below me. In my mind's eye I also see Peeta on the ground, reaching out toward me, begging me to wait for him and calling out to the artificially domed heavens above to be taken to safety, but to no avail. Plutarch also says something about how I stood up to the Capitol and started the fire of rebellion, as if I deserve all the credit. What about the things Peeta has done? Riling the crowd before the second Quarter Quell when he convinced everybody I was pregnant? What about him watching out for me and not letting himself be a piece in the Capitol's game? They never owned him up until Plutarch let the Capitol take him. And he's not going to get away with changing the subject.

"You left him there," My jaw clenches as I try to bite back my rage. "You left Peeta...in that arena...to die." Plutarch tries to get a word in, but I've heard enough. My anger shines forth as I slam my hand on the table, "Peeta was the one who was supposed to live!" I'd be lying if I said my little outburst didn't feel good. Now Coin is next to face my wrath. And speak of the devil, guess who is next to talk?

"Miss Everdeen! This revolution is about everyone; it's about all of us, and we need a voice." Hmmph, a voice. I don't think Plutarch ever showed our good Madam President footage from the Victory Tour. If he had, she would have known that Peeta did most of the talking. If she watched the Quarter Quell interviews, she would have seen that he had more influence over the Capitol audience than all of the other victors, including myself. I did nothing more than wow them with my wedding dress and Mockingjay gown, but Peeta MOVED them.

I lean in closer towards Alma Coin and respond in a voice I hope will make her regret my rescue: "Then you should have saved Peeta," and finally, I walk away, too furious to sit in the same room with any of them.

* * *

Tears threaten to fall again as I walk out the door. It seems that all I ever do is cry anymore. I try to hold them back, and I resist the urge to turn around for fear that Boggs will see my pain and think it best to return me to the hospital. But he surprises me:

"Come with me, Miss Everdeen. I will escort you to your family's quarters." I nod and follow him through the stairways and crowds of gray jumpsuits, grateful to be going home. It doesn't take long before we reach the room that my mom and Prim share, and the first thing I realize is that it's only one floor up from the hospital. I can't help but wonder if we were assigned this room on purpose, but I quickly push the thought away and turn to face Boggs before I pass through the steel gray door of my new home.

"Are they going to start me on a regular schedule like everyone else?" In a way, I hope so. I desperately need a distraction.

"Not today, Miss Everdeen. Since you haven't had a chance to fully recover, we think it best you take the remainder of the day to get some rest, and then join everybody at the commons for dinner. You need your strength. Within the next day or two we'll have you start on a schedule."

"Thank you." I give him a curt nod and slide open the door as he walks away. Our room is rather small. There are two beds, two small tables, which I can't imagine serve much purpose other than as a place to ponder during reflection, and a bathroom stall. It amazes me how the people of Thirteen have everything down to a science. All possible resources, including space, are utilized so well, even in the face of the waves of immigrants who have come to Thirteen for refuge.

Once I take in the sight, I go over to one of the beds. I doubt I'll actually fall asleep, but with Mom and Prim gone, taking a moment to lie down sounds appealing. The bed is like everything else around here: not too fancy, and yet it's nothing less than I need. The sheets are somewhat scratchy, but they provide just enough warmth to keep me comfortable, and I wish my pillow were a little more fluffy, but it does a decent job of propping my head enough such that I'm not lying in a flat position. After I change into a sterile white nightgown, I lie down on the hard mattress and drape the sheets over me. It takes a few minutes to get warm, but once I do, I close my eyes and allow myself to relish in the tranquility of the quiet room.


	4. Coin's POV

Disclaimer: I'll give you a hint. My name isn't Suzanne Collins.

A/N: Okay, so this is from Coin's POV. The flashback of her husband and daughter, I completely made up, including their names.

…...

I am certain Plutarch has overestimated Katniss' ability to lead this revolution as I watch the broken girl storm out of the conference room. She has made it clear to us that she is not interested in a rebellion, or anything else, for that matter. All she has thought about since she's been here is Peeta's welfare, which has clearly interfered with her ability to recover. The tears that formed in her eyes while Plutarch tried to brief her on the propos showed me a measure of her pain, one that I can personally understand from past losses, only I never had two Hunger Games experiences to top them off. Up until that point, I had expected to see fire in the Mockingjay's eyes, the fire of determination, but hard as I looked while taking in her features, I only saw hope washed out by her unshed tears. I sigh to myself in disappointment as Colonel Boggs follows her out of the room, because as much as I hate to admit it, I know we've made a mistake in rescuing Katniss from the arena.

"Maybe you should have rescued the boy instead," I tell Plutarch as I turn to face him. I'm not even sure why I said that, because after all it's not like we can turn back time and correct our mistake. Through Plutarch, I had heard of Peeta's impressive ability to move a crowd with words, but I was blinded by the effect the girl had on Panem as a whole. I remain unconvinced of her ability to lead as my comrade tries to allay my doubt.

"This is not the girl you described," I reply as I shake my head in disapproval. And she isn't. Our girl on fire is burnt out. Broken. The hospital's efforts to help her have only proved disappointing, and a feeling of dread washes over me as I begin to wonder if a rebellion will fail just as miserably. The districts live in hell right now, and the people of Thirteen have had enough of living underground. Personally, I want more than anything to step into the light and see Snow removed for good.

I realize I'm wasting my time sitting in the conference room when I could be reflecting on how to resolve the matter at hand, but before I can even get up, Plutarch continues: "Well, obviously, we need to make it personal for her; remind her who the real enemy is."

Mentally, I roll my eyes as that is the most pathetic thing I have heard him say yet. "She knows who the enemy is, that's not the issue."

"Well, obviously, she's forgotten." Well, let's see, who's in charge of making sure the games happen every year? Snow. Who approved the idea of her going back a second time? Snow. Which part of Panem shows total disregard for human life? The Capitol. No, it's impossible to forget who the real enemy is. My patience begins to wear thin once my comrade draws the final straw: "Let her see what the Capitol did to District 12."

_No, no, no! Absolutely not!_ My mind reels. "She can't handle it, the Games destroyed her!" I know if she goes home, her mind and soul just might crumble among the ashes of the thousands of others who not so long ago lost their lives to the radiating heat and impact of Capitol firebombs. The sight of Twelve, now nothing more than a graveyard, will be her own bombshell. Given her already fragile state, I have no doubt its impact will shatter her. The shocked expression on my face gives Plutarch my answer to his request.

"This is the only choice you have," he repeats again. "People don't always show up the way you want them to, Madame President. But that anger, that anger-driven defiance, that's what we want, and we can redirect it. We need to unite these people out there who have been doing nothing but killing each other in that arena for years." I look away from Plutarch, trying to stick fast to my decision, but his words of sparking the revolution strongly appeal to my desires to end the oppression in the districts. My eyes begin to water as I suddenly feel very confused. "We need a lightning rod. They'll follow her. She's the face of the revolution. Let her see it, let her go home."

I press my hand against my lips to prevent them from quivering as I flash back to a time when my district was struck with an epidemic. Before we managed to improve underground cultivation, there were also issues with the plants that we depended on for nutrition and survival. Many were diseased, and they made their way into our daily meals and therefore our digestive systems. In my mind's eye, I can still see the paling faces of the ill-stricken, their flesh ghostly white against the gray of their jumpsuits. I remember the slender, bony figures of many who couldn't bring themselves to eat as they began to disappear into their uniforms. What hits home most, though, is the painful recollection of my late husband Steven and my little girl Melanie, both whom fell victim to illness around the same time.

* * *

***Flashback***

"Mommy! Mommy!" My five-year old daughter's pained screams alert me in the middle of the night as I hurriedly turn on the dim lights to my family's quarters and rush to her bedside. She's been sick for weeks, and there is little I can do to ease her discomfort.

"I'm here, baby. What's wrong?" I ask as I place my fingers against her cheek to assess for fever and push locks of her fair brown hair that sweat has glued to her face and forehead. I had hoped it was only my imagination when I started to notice that her complexion began to fair, but tonight, my stomach drops when I observe that she is even more pale than I have ever seen her.

"My stomach hurts!" She whines as she presses her hands to her abdomen. "And I'm thirsty."

"Are you hungry?" I should know better than to ask that. When you live in a society where you only receive rations of food for every meal, there is never any extra to have on hand if needed.

"No, just my stomach hurts. And daddy's still throwing up. I'm too scared to sleep." My daughter's words give me excuse to look away, towards the bathroom stall where her father is, as I try to hide my tears from her. It hadn't occurred to me where my husband was when my Melanie called out to me, but now my heart begins to race and I feel as though I can barely breathe.

As quickly as I can, I walk to a small table near my bed and grab a cup and a pitcher of groundwater I had been hoarding. We're not supposed to do that: take anything from the commons, but once Steven and Mel became ill, I began rationing my own water at every meal, drinking only a quarter of my share or passing on it altogether, no matter what the cost to me. I'm not the only one to do this, because so many more are in poor health. Every drop I saved was one more for the pitcher, to be rationed for my loved ones in the middle of the night when water is desperately desired in the face of dehydration, but _8:30 Breakfast_ is not scheduled for another six hours. There isn't all that much in the pitcher, maybe about three cups or so, but I fill a glass halfway and hand it to my daughter, telling her to drink it slowly. We need to save some for her father, too.

She obeys, but still wants more after she's done. To my disappointment, however, there is little to spare, as I have already poured a cup for my husband, whose body is aching from coughing and is fatigued from retching. "Alma, pour her the rest of the water," he gently insists. So I do. She drinks greedily, and by the look on her face when she's done, I know it's still not enough.

"I wish we had more," she frowns as her small hands hold out the empty cup to me. I feel as though my heart will literally break in two when I look at her, because I know I don't have what any doctor would prescribe: more food and water. I avert my gaze and face the floor in shame. Maybe next time I could go without water for a day or two.

"Alma," my husband starts as he puts his hand on my shoulder. "I'm feeling a little better now." I give him a look that says _I know you're lying_, but he waves it off because he would say anything to put Mel at ease. "Why don't you and Mel give me a few minutes to get back into bed and fall asleep? Take her above ground for a few minutes to get some fresh air and see the stars?"

"The stars?" Mel asks.

"Yes, munchkin. They're beautiful balls of gas burning brightly from far away, and they look like little diamonds in the sky! It's not always safe to be above ground, but I think tonight its peaceful out. I can feel it. Have your mom show them to you for a few minutes, and then come back and she'll tuck you in."

"Mom, please?" Mel begs as she turns to face me. Steven knows very well we don't go above ground in the event of a Capitol air raid, and I would have scolded him had he been well. But my instincts tell me he still doesn't feel well and needs a few minutes of privacy before he can settle back to sleep, and talk of the "diamonds" Mel has never seen before have lifted her spirits. So, against my better judgment, I agree.

…...

It is almost pitch black when Mel and I reach the end of a tunnel that takes us above ground. It takes a minute for my eyes to register the outlines of forestry that has reclaimed the surface in the absence of human presence. The moonlight shines down through a canopy of trees, and illuminates a small river of running water I didn't even know was there. Mel is mesmerized and immediately escapes my grip.

"Melanie, come back here! It's dark and you'll trip on something! Don't run off!" I carefully fumble through the dark towards her silhouette, which has made its way toward the stream.

"Mom, it's water!" She calls as her hands make splashing noises against the stream. "It feels so good!"

"Honey, be careful! It may not be any good. We don't know the condition of the water! If there's any bacteria, it could make you more sick," I counter, but the pleasure the water offers her is enough to mute my warning. When she finally slows down, I can see from where I stand her head is tilted toward the sky.

"Mommy, are those the stars daddy was talking about?"

I come up to her and kneel down to her level and hold her tight. "Yes, baby, those are the stars. When the sun gets tired after a long day, the stars and the moon," I point to the round, 2-D figure in the sky, "take over, and light some of the darkness. It is a symbol of hope."

"Like hope that I will get better soon?" she asks innocently.

"Yeah, something like that." And with that, I decide we've been out for long enough, and I take her back underground. Little did I know that particular night would be one of the last few I would ever have my daughter in this life, and that I would soon lose my husband a few weeks later.

**End Flashback**

…...

Their deaths alone sent me into a fit of depression for months. And hundreds more past away like my husband and daughter. The remains of the dead in Twelve is ten-fold what we have experienced here in Thirteen, and the grief that I went through after the epidemic is nothing I would ever wish on anyone else, especially our Mockingjay. I can't even begin to guess how Katniss would take the sight of the death and destruction, but Plutarch has a point. This may be what she needs to find her wings again, to re-stoke the fire that began with a handful of berries in that arena almost two years ago. I want to keep that energy going, but wish it didn't have to come at the expense of one girl's sanity. I inhale a sharp breath and flex the fingers in my left hand to relieve a little stress before breathing the words "send her."


End file.
